The Gravedigger
by Min Daae
Summary: Written for Yuletide 2009. The Hound dies.


It took far too long to die.

He'd always thought of death as something that just happened – you were alive and then you weren't. Damn girl. He realized, slowly, that he was laughing.

Wasn't he supposed to be looking back on his life, now that it was coming to an end? Considering everything he'd done right and wrong, if he'd made something of himself, shit like that. He didn't particularly _want _to. It was more interesting to think about how much he hurt.

Couldn't he just die already?

Sandor closed his eyes again, wondering if that would help. If he were some hero or – _damn them – _true knight, it would be raining, with some virgin maid weeping over him. So much for that. Instead he was lying here in dry and crackling leaves, the sun shone through his eyelids, and a bird was singing its heart out in the trees. He was just a slab of so much rotting meat. That was worth laughing at.

"Shut up," he snarled at the bird. Wouldn't they love to see him now? Joffrey, stupid dead Joffrey. Gregor. His brother would laugh, probably for a long time. Sandor had always hated Gregor's laugh.

Damn leg. He felt as thought it would just split open like rotten fruit, imagined flesh cracking open, spewing black, scuttling bugs. He watched them scurry away, or else those were just spots in front of his eyes. Fires were everywhere, now. The whole damn world was on fire. The whole damn world was coming to an end…

He thought he heard a horse. Good. At first Sandor thought it was the girl, but the figure was all in black, and hooded. The Stranger himself, then?

Or else it was Gregor, but that didn't matter anymore. What could his brother do now? Drag his rotting carcass to King's Landing and hang his dead body? He was already burning, he was already dead.

He let his head fall back and laughed raspily, the sun glowing behind his eyelids. "Here," he rasped, as loud as he could. "Here, I am here. Come, damn you. It is time to die."

**

Sandor screamed again, fist pounding against the ground, roaring until his lungs gave out and he could only pant helplessly, feeling as though blood should be dripping from his clenched hand. He was screaming and didn't know if it was anger or pain or something else, but he did know that this was not what he wanted.

He wanted to kill the silent, hooded man crouched over his leg. Wanted to break his limbs one by one and smash his nose back into his brain. Wanted to wring his skinny neck until it snapped.

He couldn't even think of moving that much.

"Be still. Be easy. You need your strength." Sandor hated the noise from his throat, the whimper of a sick dog.

"Don't need you. Fuck _off._" Stupid, stubborn dog. Others seemed to die so easily. What was _his _problem? "What about my fucking brother? Just ask him."

"The Mountain is dead, or dying, poisoned by Oberyn Martell."

Sandor blinked, and then couldn't help but laugh again, even though it hurt. Wasn't that just – spent his whole life waiting, planning, never daring, and some southern snake stepped up and did it for him. If he could still move, he would have been angry. He was a little angry anyway.

"Try to hold still," the man – a septon, the Stranger, Sandor didn't or couldn't care – said in that infuriatingly calm voice. Sandor snarled, starting to open his mouth, but then the damn man was sawing his leg open, or so it felt. He surged upward, howling himself into unconsciousness.

It didn't last long enough. He came back and his leg was still throbbing worse than before, his head spun, and _someone _was _sponging _his _damn forehead. _Sandor hated himself for crying but couldn't stop, like a damn weakling, damn coward. "Stop. Don't want – this – you-"

"Shhh," said the man, hatefully and mockingly gentle. He hated himself more for trying to move with the coolness of the cloth when it was taken away. "No man suffers alone." It was hot, so hot, and it only seemed to get worse. He panted, thirsty.

"Dogs do." The man didn't respond, but moved back to his leg again and Sandor couldn't help but moan in dread. "Don't poke at it."

"I have to draw the poison out."

"No," Sandor said, emphatically, "You don't," but he didn't have the energy to snarl anymore, and screamed more instead. He could do that well enough.

**

No one had been able to pick him up, at least not for a very long time, but the feeling of swaying didn't go away even when he checked back to see what was going on with his body. It was that damn man again. He opened one eye. "Stranger?" He asked, blurrily.

"No," said the septon, who was working on something – he had to be a septon, no one else was enough of an idiot to drag him along like this. What did he think he could do, _pray _him well? "I am only a man."

"Don't be an idiot," Sandor rasped. "The horse. Stranger."

"Behind the cart," the septon said, after a moment, and then added, "…you are a very troubled man." Sandor couldn't help but laugh, sharp and short. It hurt, but it was worth it.

"Tell me something new or go fuck yourself. I don't care."

He closed his eyes again. What was the use of all of this? Be damned if he knew. He could have asked, but that would have taken too much effort. He listened to his own heartbeat instead and tried not to think about his leg.

"Do you often mock the gods so freely?"

"There are no gods." He didn't open his eyes. "If you're going to hack my leg off you may as well take my head with it. Don't need to be an ugly cripple, one or the other's enough."

The man sighed, sounding wearied. "Is there nothing you find joy in? You are no dog, to live from moment to moment. Every man must have some purpose. What is yours?"

"Killing," Sandor slurred. "I like killing. And wine." He practically heard the man wince. Not that it mattered now, he wouldn't kill anyone like this. _Could probably manage a child. If it wasn't the wolf girl._ He wondered where she was, now. Dead or with his brother, probably, and if that were the case better she were dead. He hoped she regretted not killing him now. Who needed to be left to the tender care of some septon? Not him. All Sandor wanted was to fucking _die _and why was that so _hard?_

"A man cannot live without love," said the septon, sounding horrified. "Love for something-"

"Watch me," Sandor said, and opened his eyes to slits. "The world is meaningless, the gods don't exist or are crueler than men, and I'm dead. Best learn all of that, preferably the last one first. You'd probably be a hero." He couldn't help a laugh. "Maybe they'd knight you. Give out sers for fucking anything."

"It is my calling to heal, not to kill," said the man. Damn piety. If he could just _move _he would try to strangle the man, he bet septon or not he'd kill him then. That'd be nice.

"Bugger that. Bugger you. I don't care."

"Do you care for anything?" There he went sounding gentle and concerned again. Sandor hated him. Once he was on his feet again, he'd run the man through six times. Gleefully. Once he was on his feet again, that was worth another laugh, or nearly.

"No," Sandor said, flatly, though for a fleeting moment he almost thought of the little bird, or maybe the she-wolf, or even further back – his mouth soured.

"You have nothing?"

"I had something," Sandor said, not quite sure why he was even bothering to talk at all. Probably because he was dead. "You said Prince Martell killed it. And Polliver killed me." He snorted. "Can't tell me that's not funny. Dogs kill rats, not the other way around."

"You aren't making any sense, Sandor."

"Don't call me that," he snarled. "Fucking dead dog. That's it."

"Who's the 'she-wolf?'"

Sandor fell still, and didn't know why he lied. _Stark's daughter. They've been looking for her everywhere. _"Some whore." His mouth twisted. Why did it matter? He didn't have to lie. It wasn't like it would matter to some septon. Damn girl wouldn't even give him mercy.

"I know you will heal. Only have faith."

"Shove your faith up your ass," Sandor forced out. "And give me some wine."

**

He cursed for a day and a half straight when he learned where he was being taken. The septon ignored him, for the first time. A monastery. A fucking monastery. His leg hurt more every day, he was dizzy with heat and nausea, and they thought they could fucking convert him, or _fix _him or something. "You bitch," he snarled, as the septon came back again to squeeze the foulness out of his wound. "You _bitch._"

The septon ignored him. Sandor averted his eyes, not wanting anything to do with the swollen, red streaked _thing _that was his wounded leg. The man began poking at it, and Sandor bit his tongue until he tasted blood, determined not to scream.

"Why are you so angry, Sandor?"

"Don't call me that," he said, through his teeth.

"You are no ser-"

"At least you admit that."

"And I will not call you 'Dog' or 'Hound.'"

He forced a grin, knowing how grotesque it must look. "Doesn't make me any less of one. I don't give a fuck for what you want. You're wasting your time."

The man sat up, looking grave. "Do you truly want to die?"

"Yes," Sandor said, tightly, "It'd be better than this." The wound pulsed hot and cold, and he clamped his hand on his good thigh so he didn't feel like touching it. "Anything'd be better then this."

The man sighed, again. Then he opened his mouth and sang. _"Gentle mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray-_"

The noise from his own throat, dragged out as primal as a scream but more painful, surprised him. "Don't. Just – don't. Gods damn you. Gods damn you all." He was crying again, he hated it, but it was there all the same. It was only because of the fire. He let his head fall forward, and wished his tears were colder, so at least they would help something.

"Poor bastard," said the septon, softly, and Sandor could hear himself laughing. It was just _funny. _He leaned his head back and cursed Oberyn Martell for killing his brother. _Soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way…_

There was no kinder way. He knew that. Sandor let his fingers dig into his leg. They were the only part of him that still had any strength. You are one of the strong, or you are one of the dead.

What did that make him? He wasn't strong anymore, but he wasn't dead yet. Just dying. And every pulse of pain reminded him of the difference.

"You will find peace," the septon said, softly, and Sandor wondered if he mistook pain for suffering.

"Yeah," he agreed, bitterly, "Peace, when I'm dead," and closed his mouth and his eyes together. Maybe if he was lucky they wouldn't reach any monastery before the fire in his body burned him all away.

He wasn't lucky, but then he'd never been lucky.

**

There was something soothing about digging a grave.

He could still barely stand, but he needed to work, and they agreed with him for once, and put a shovel in his hands and told him he could use the time to think.

It was too quiet here, sometimes; quiet enough that he felt as though he would stifle. But it wasn't so bad. He felt old, now. Aged years in a few weeks, as though every bloodletting and day of healing had drained some life from him as well. He'd never been young, but he'd never wanted to be old either.

He was tired enough not to care.

No one called him by his name. It was always 'novice' or 'my son' or something. They hardly seemed to acknowledge his scars. They certainly didn't acknowledge his name or his past. When he'd first gotten back on his feet, he'd tried to leave.

His leg had given out halfway across the small island, and they'd brought him back. For no good reason.

Sandor knew he should be dead.

He threw his shoulders into the next shovelful and turned it over. The earth smelled warm and moist. Every grave he dug should have been his own. It was only stupid, stubborn luck that none of them were. No intervention. Nothing more.

Men were singing. He never joined them for that. Never joined them for anything. They were too different for that, and no matter how much they named him one of them, he would never be anything but an outsider.

They didn't fear him, that was strange as well. He'd snarled a threat without thinking at one of the proper young novices, and the boy hadn't even blinked. He didn't seem to understand, but of course he must have.

Any day, he could take his sword and Stranger and leave. So Gregor was dead; if he was still alive, he could still do something. Go to Braavos, maybe. Somewhere no one knew his name at all. Somewhere no one would try to fix him and maybe whores would find his scars exotic instead of hideous.

He snorted.

There was a horse coming, and a cart, and he half looked up, then looked down just as quickly. He could see a shield, and armor. A knight, then, though why anyone would come here…

_They'd brought him here. Just keeping him here a cosseted prisoner so he could be brought to justice… _

That thought didn't anger him as much as he thought it would. The dog knew him, though, pricked up her ears and ran over the mounds of dirt to greet him. Sandor stuck the shovel in the ground and managed to kneel to take the dog's head between his hands.

Not a pretty hound, but she was a sweet girl. Her body wiggled a little, tongue hanging out of her mouth. It was too bad more people weren't like dogs. He would have liked them more that way.

The knight kept going, and he watched him under his eyelids, waiting. It was only a matter of time, after all. It didn't seem to last long enough; it lasted too long, but the brother who'd come in with the knight – Sandor forgot his name – came hurrying out, making a straight line for Sandor.

He shoved himself to his feet using the shovel, giving the bitch one last scratch behind the ears. Some ways, it was a pity, but what did it matter? "What," he said, and of course his voice was still distinctive as ever.

"Do you know the Maid of Tarth?"

"The Maid of-" Oh. That explained it. Sandor felt his mouth twitch and leaned more heavily on the shovel. Just more of an insult. "No. Not personally. I've heard of her."

"She came asking for the Hound," said the brother. There was a queer tone in his voice. "The father has told her that the Hound died."

Sandor blinked, a moment, and then again. "That's a lie," he said, stupidly, and then grimaced at how witless that sounded, and turned his back, taking another shovelful of dirt. Maybe he would have a grave after all.

"Is it?"

He stopped, then, and felt that just for a moment, something was glimmering just slightly out of reach. He couldn't reach it, probably never would, he had a feeling, but hell, it was close enough.

He thought he understood. A helmet was rusting in the woods somewhere, and that was good enough.

Sandor shrugged. "What would I know? I haven't seen him."

It wasn't peace, nothing so close. But it might be close enough.

There was something soothing about digging a grave.


End file.
